Meg and Jo

by Virginia Kantra

  “Sorry,” I mumbled.

  I willed myself not to glance toward Eric. It wasn’t his job to rescue me.

  But of course he heard. He heard everything that went on in his kitchen.

  “Veg on the fly,” he said. “How long?”

  Handling me—his clumsy prep cook, his onetime hookup—like one more spinning plate in his juggling act at the pass.

  My face burned as I calculated my time. The goal was to get all the ingredients to the pass at the same time so that Eric could plate. A second pan of potatoes, already seared and seasoned, waited for the kiss of butter and thyme that would bring them back to life. “Three minutes, Chef.” Impossible in this environment even to imagine calling him anything else.

  “Push back the rib eye,” he instructed Lucas. “Three minutes, yeah?”

  “Yes, Chef.”

  Eric plucked a ticket from the rattling printer. “Ordering,” he called, focusing all eyes back on him. “Table twelve, two charcuterie. Followed by one pappardelle, two sea bass, one rib eye, medium rare.”

  A chorus of assent echoed back. Yes, Chef. Oui, Chef.

  I threw down pans for vegetables and heated up sauce. Beneath my cheap chef’s jacket, I was sweltering. Sweating. I’d be playing catch-up all night now. Did I have enough? Should I have prepped more potatoes? Two minutes and fifty seconds later, I grabbed my pots and headed for the pass.

  Eric accepted my offerings without a word. Deftly, he composed the dish, scattering gold coins of potatoes around the plate, dotting orbs of flavor in a seemingly random arrangement. Instagram stuff. #foodporn.

  He paused. Considered.

  I held my breath. Not that I needed his approval. He wasn’t my father.

  But he was my boss. He’d taken a chance on me tonight, putting me on entremets when Frank called out sick. Cooking was a job for me, not a career. But I wanted to impress him, wanted to believe my best was good enough. So, yeah, okay, a little approval would be nice.

  He glanced up. His eyes crinkled, just barely, before he touched my shoulder. The fleeting gesture seared through my chef’s jacket all the way down to my toes. Amazingly, I did not dissolve into a puddle of lust and relief on the floor.

  “Service!” he called, and turned back to the board.

  Good. Fine. No special treatment, no favoritism, no gossip.

  I retreated to my station, my cheeks still burning with residual heat.

  * * *

  Five hours later, the last tickets—desserts and salads, late-night stuff—had been cleared from the rack. Eric called the last order and disappeared into his office, leaving Ray in charge of the pass. The crowd out front had dwindled to a couple of college girls on barstools flirting with the manager and a four-top of campers who wouldn’t leave until we turned out the lights. I hauled my pans to the dishwashing station. Isaam and Tomas were moving mountains of pots and plates, the spray from their hoses raising clouds of steam. My back ached. My feet hurt as if I’d just completed a marathon. I was dehydrated, depleted, my blood buzzing with a potent cocktail of adrenaline and endorphins like a runner’s high.

  Ray shut off the heat lamps. “Right. Start breaking down.”

  My station looked like a battlefield, debris everywhere, shriveled corpses of potatoes scattered on the rubber mat by my feet. I attacked the mess, labeling and stowing the mise en place away. Scrubbed the tabletop, polishing the stainless until it shone. Knotted my trash chute bag and carried it out back.

  Lucas was smoking by the loading dock, shoulders hunched against the December wind sneaking down the alley. He jumped as the door opened.

  “It’s only me,” I said.

  The cooks all copped their cigarette breaks when Chef wasn’t likely to see them. Eric did not smoke. Bad for the palate, he said.

  I looked around for the alley cat but it was off hunting. Or invisible in the dark.

  Lucas took another drag. “Nice job tonight.”

  A little glow, like the spark from his cigarette, warmed my insides. “Thanks.”

  “Chef really threw you into the fire, putting you on the line like that.”

  I shrugged. “You know what they say. If you can’t stand the heat . . .”

  “Get out of the kitchen?”

  I hefted the trash bag into the Dumpster. “Don’t piss off the dragon,” I said.

  Lucas laughed, short and sharp. Together, we trudged back inside. I shook out the black carpet runner under my station. Swept the floor.

  Kevin, the back waiter, almost unrecognizable in his street clothes, appeared. “We’re headed to The Spot. You in?”

  I hesitated. The bar would be packed with restaurant folk fresh out of service, flush with tips and gossip. Good blog material.

  “Go. You’ve done enough here,” Ray said.

  “Gee, thanks. Was that supposed to be a compliment?” I asked.

  The sous looked down his nose at me. “If you choose to take it that way.” He pursed his lips. Added grudgingly, “You did all right tonight.”

  “Um. Thank you.”

  “Come on,” Kevin urged. “I’ll buy you a beer. You earned it, baby.”

  I needed a drink. I could almost taste the beer, crisp and cold, sliding over my parched palate, down my dry throat. I glanced toward the office. “You go ahead,” I said. “Maybe I’ll see you there.”

  Eric sat at his desk, an open bottle of water and a clipboard of things to do in front of him. I stopped in the doorway, unaccountably shy. Reluctant to interrupt.

  Stupid. My clothes were in there. My coat. What was I going to do, ride the subway dressed like a giant marshmallow?

  I marched to the closet and yanked it open.

  “Good service tonight,” Eric said behind me.

  “I dropped the potatoes,” I blurted.

  “We all make mistakes the first time, yeah? That’s how we learn.”

  I turned. He had leaned back in his chair, watching me. The top button of his chef’s coat was undone, exposing the dark hollow of his throat. He looked tired. Well, I was exhausted, and he worked harder than I did.

  I raised an eyebrow. “Are you speaking from experience, or is this some Teutonic aphorism you learned at your mother’s knee?”

  His face lit with laughter, and something turned over inside me. My heart.

  Ray stuck his head in the doorway. Like he’d been hanging around outside, waiting for the perfect moment to interrupt. “Starting the menu meeting, Chef.”

  “Yes.” Eric collected his legs under him. Looked at me. “You are not staying?”

  I shook my head. I had my prep list for the regular Sunday brunch menu. Deciding the specials—what needed to be used up or added to the standing delivery orders or fetched fresh from the market—was the chefs’ job. “I’ll be in in the morning. Six o’clock.”

  Meaning, if I skipped the bar and went straight home, I could get, what? Four hours of sleep? My bones shuddered.

  But life was full of trade-offs, right? Maybe I didn’t have the career I’d always dreamed of, but I was still living the life I’d chosen in the city I loved. At least for now.

  “I’ll say good night, then,” Eric said politely.

  I looked at him, uncertain. Will I see you later? But I couldn’t ask. Not with Ray standing there listening.

  “Here.” Eric reached into the minifridge beside his desk, where the expensive stuff was stashed, white truffles and osetra caviar, and tossed me a bottle.

  I caught it. Pedialyte. Yuck. “Are you kidding? My sister gives this stuff to her two-year-olds.”

  His eyes narrowed in amusement. “You need electrolytes.”

  The glow spread. He was taking care of me. Of course, he looked out for everybody on his team. But his attention to me felt different. Sweet. Special.

  “Oh. Well . . .” I raised the bottle in
salute. “Cheers.”

  Maybe he’d call after he left the restaurant, I thought hopefully. Or text.

  And maybe he wouldn’t.

  Sure, he’d texted me before. Or rather, I’d messaged him through his restaurant account. He could get my number from my file. But we weren’t exactly a couple. He could have a girlfriend I didn’t know about. A chef groupie. A regular booty call.

  Sex was like food, after all. A basic need. That’s what I’d always believed, no matter what Meg or Trey or all those poets I’d studied in college said.

  “I have such a taste for you, Jo.”

  His whisper sparkled along my nerves, burst in my chest like a fistful of glitter. And my breath went all over again.

  I walked through the kitchen on autopilot. Isaam gave me a friendly wave from the dishwashing bay as I passed.

  “Good night,” I called.

  “Nos vemos mañana,” Tomas said. See you in the morning.

  It was almost one now. Outside, the glow of the streetlights obliterated the stars. The sidewalks glittered with frost. Going underground, the air was dank and cold. Huddled on the subway, rocking to the rhythm of the train, I unscrewed the Pedialyte and took a swig. Shuddered. Recapping the bottle, I pulled out my phone. Hoping.

  A message from Meg lit up the screen. An update on Mom, still recovering from her fall. A mirror selfie of Meg in a red dress, head angled like a pro. Getting ready to go out! my sister had typed. It’s not the same without you.

  Unexpected tears stung my eyes. Darling Meg. I wasn’t the same without her, either. She had dragged me to parties and dressed me for prom, her popularity smoothing my way through high school. She was my oldest ally, my other half. My better half, according to Aunt Phee. All our lives, people had compared me with my pretty, kind, sensible older sister. Without her I was less defined, less myself. Lizzy without Jane, a brain without a heart.

  I didn’t run to my big sister with every imagined romantic drama, the way that Amy did. But we’d shared a room until I turned fifteen, whispering secrets across the darkness between our beds. For every major event in my life, my sister was there. When I moved away to school, when I broke up with Trey for the final time, Meg called me every day to see how I was doing.

  I couldn’t wait to tell her about Eric.

  Unless I never heard from him again.

  I texted her back—Glad to see you and the boobs going out! Hope you had fun!—before scanning the rest of my messages.

  Nothing from Eric.

  What did I expect?

  The subway car jolted to a stop. A night-shift worker in scrubs got off. A trio of student types with backpacks and earbuds got on. The train chugged away from the platform, escalating into the dark tunnel. I checked my blog. Scrolled through my notifications, liking, replying, and retweeting. I shared a picture of potatoes fondant to Instagram, promising to post the recipe tomorrow. And . . . Oh my God, there was Beth, in my newsfeed, tagged in an onstage photo of Colt Henderson. My sister never posted anything. Too shy. But that was definitely her. The angle almost made it look like they were singing together, Bethie in her angel costume with her eyes half-closed, the show’s star smiling behind his guitar. I typed a caption—A star is born?—added a smiley face and forwarded her the photo. Not that she’d see it tonight. It was after midnight in Branson, way past my sister’s bedtime.

  The train rattled and jerked to my station. I climbed the stairs to the street. Down the block, the bodega’s windows glowed. A far-off siren wailed against the dark. Walking home alone at this hour used to scare me. Now it was routine. I lengthened my stride, watching the shadows, listening for footsteps, holding my keys ready in my pocket. My building didn’t have a doorman.

  I had locked and bolted the door behind me when the phone buzzed in my hand. Stupid with fatigue, I stared at the unfamiliar number, the single word message. Hungry? E

  Hungry was my blog. But E . . . That E . . .

  My heart tripped. It was Eric. He knew. I was busted as a food critic. An idiot hipster food blogger.

  Except . . . I pressed my fingers to my eyes, forcing my sleep-deprived brain to think. He was texting me. At one in the morning. I knew what that meant. Booty call.

  Hungry?

  I smiled, sagging against the door, weak with relief and happiness. Starving, I typed.

  The doorbell for the front entrance buzzed, making me jump and clutch the phone. Let me up?

  I mashed the button to admit him to the building. Unlocked my door and threw it open. “How did you get here so fast?” I asked as he came up the stairs.

  “Uber.” He held up a white takeout bag. “I brought food.”

  My smile spread. “Of course you did.” He lived to feed people. To take care of them. Service.

  He gestured toward the tiny countertop. “Here?”

  “Sure.” I stood back as he unloaded the bag, his big hands quick and confident. The smells of ginger, garlic, and sesame oil filled my apartment.

  That was it? We were just going to eat?

  I cleared my throat. “That’s an awful lot of little white boxes,” I observed.

  “I wanted to give you a choice.” He met my gaze, his eyes steady on mine. “I didn’t know what you wanted.”

  There was that glow, warming me from the inside out. Making me feel daring. Happy. “You,” I said, and jumped him.

  * * *

  God, that was good,” I said much later.

  Eric kissed my temple. “Yes.”

  We were naked in my loft, surrounded by half-empty cartons of Chinese takeout. I flopped back on my pillow. “I’ve never been so stuffed in my life.”

  His eyes crinkled.

  “With food,” I clarified, punching his bare shoulder.

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” he said politely.

  “I did.” I sat up again, kissing the place where I’d smacked him, warm, solid muscle and smooth skin. “All of it.”

  He turned his head, kissing my mouth. A rich, savory kiss, flavored with soy and sex. Umami, the elusive fifth taste. I leaned into him, craving more, chasing his taste with my tongue, and . . . Crap. I jerked back, yanking my hand from a puddle of kung pao chicken.

  Smiling, Eric righted the carton. Holding my wrist, he ate from my hand. And then, when I was feeling all melty and squirmy, he gathered the remaining cartons and stacked them. To get them out of the way? In the kitchen, his section was always immaculate, his setups pristine, everything soigné.

  He caught me watching him and raised an eyebrow. “More?”

  Food? Or sex? My face heated. “Maybe later.”

  “As you wish.”

  Like the farm boy Westley declaring his love for the Princess Bride. My heart jerked. It was one of my favorite movies. Had he seen it? But when I tried to ask, my tongue tangled. This wasn’t a fairy tale. And I was nobody’s Buttercup. I could live my own adventure, thank you very much.

  “I’ve got this,” I said, grabbing a box. “I have to get up now anyway.”

  “You should rest.”

  “Can’t. I have to be at the restaurant in . . .” I glanced at my phone. Oh God. “An hour.”

  Sleeping with the boss—or in this case, not sleeping—didn’t mean I could call in late to work.

  Eric nodded. “I should get going, too.”

  Right. He didn’t come into the restaurant on Sundays, but obviously he couldn’t stay in my apartment. He wasn’t my boyfriend. I wasn’t sure what he was, besides my boss, but I wasn’t about to slap a label on our relationship and then sulk because it didn’t live up to my assumptions. When he failed to conform to my expectations. I wasn’t going to make the same mistakes with Eric that Trey had made with me.

  Even if I felt things with him that I’d never felt for Trey.

  I swallowed. Don’t overthink this. “I’m gonna shower.”<
br />
  I slithered down the ladder to grab my clothes and whisked myself into the bathroom. Running away. When I got out, Eric was already dressed.

  He slipped his phone into his pocket. “All set?”

  “You bet,” I said, as perky as I could be on no sleep. No coffee.

  We went downstairs together. He didn’t reach for my hand this time. I was annoyed with myself for noticing.

  The sun wasn’t up yet. Eric’s Uber ride idled in front of my building, puffing clouds of exhaust into the air. He exchanged male-nods with the driver and opened the door.

  “Well.” I stood awkwardly on the curb. Did we kiss? Wave? “See you.”

  “Yes.” He enveloped me briefly in a warm, hard hug and then stepped back, holding the door.

  I looked at him in confusion.

  “Get in,” he said.

  I obeyed out of habit, used to following his direction in the kitchen. When he didn’t slide in behind me, I peered up at his silhouette, dark against the streetlight. “Are you . . . Aren’t you coming? To the restaurant?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t want to cramp Ray’s style.”

  “But . . .”

  “See you,” he said, like an echo, like a promise, and closed the door. The car pulled away from the curb.

  Leaning forward, I addressed the driver. “What do I owe you?”

  He met my gaze in the rearview mirror. Why, his expression asked, do I always get the dumb ones? “Forget about it,” he said.

  Right. Because Eric had already charged the fare to his card.

  I sank back into the unfamiliar luxury of being driven to work. An hour before sunrise, the streets were stirring with cabs and delivery trucks, dog walkers and runners. Another morning, I might have been one of them. This morning was different. I felt different.

  I couldn’t wait to talk to Meg.

  Not that I could call her now. Unless the twins woke her, she would still be in bed at this hour.

  * * *

  An hour before service I snuck off to the loading dock like a smoker grabbing a cigarette break and checked my phone. There was a wordless reply from Beth and one new comment on my blog. I needed a fresh post. I texted Beth—WTG! ttys?—and called Meg.